


Scar Tissue

by little_luna



Series: Your Pain Is Mine Now [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asphyxiation, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Claiming, Claiming Bites, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mates, Non canon compliant, Pack Bonding, Post Season 3, Soul Bond, Top Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:18:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4537749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_luna/pseuds/little_luna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles realizes that after all of it, after every single thing Derek has been through, he doesn’t even have a single, ragged scar to show for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scar Tissue

**Author's Note:**

> A handful of readers really liked the first part of this verse, and after so many kind words I couldn't really leave this alone. This is just a continuation of the first part, loose ends tied and further development between a growing relationship from Sties' perspective. 
> 
> Title and inspiration taken directly from Scar Tissue by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

It’s a rare morning where Stiles wakes before Derek.

 

He’s found that over the months Derek has only become more akin to his scent, his heartbeat, when Stiles moves, Derek shifts, when Stiles reaches for the werewolf, he already has his hand waiting. It had shocked Stiles initially, just how easy it was for the brunette to match his own tempo, calming the teen in the process, but Derek did always fall hard for those in his sights.

 

Derek hasn’t yet stirred. A few seconds after Stiles’ heartbeat picks up with consciousness, Derek is always trailing behind, stirring, turning toward Stiles with a good morning, even if his face doesn’t look positively refreshed. 

 

This morning, however, Stiles has already been awake for a few minutes, simply watching Derek’s bare back rise and fall aided by his steady, even breathing. They had stumbled into the loft the previous night exhausted, dirt tracks on the hardwood, anxious heart and tired limbs. There’s something stalking the preserve, evading sight and capture, making the pack uneasy with tension. Derek had run himself into near exhaustion, Stiles is glad he’s finally resting.

 

Derek’s room is just an extension of the loft, wide-open windows, exposed brick-work, a dark, minimal color scheme. A king bed is shoved against the windows, headboard being the only cover for the morning sun peeking directly into the vast space. But after months, the space finally looks _lived in_. There’s a shirt on the floor, keys on the table, Isaac’s dishes piling up in the sink. Derek finally invested in a coffeemaker, a painting, extra sheets and blankets for pack meetings that run late, _throw pillows with embroidery_.

 

Sometimes it’s hard to fathom that the man Stiles looks at for comfort and guidance was the very one who told him to get off his property when he was a gangly, blushing teenager. Most of the time he can’t bother to be nostalgic, not with his course work, not with the mythical flavor of the week, not with pack meetings, not with learning Derek over and over again. 

 

But _sometimes_ , during those moments where it’s still and calm, when the noise breaks, when he can finally catch his breath, he enjoys it. 

 

He watches Derek’s tattoo move between the crests of his shoulder blades, he notices how his hair is getting longer, how the duvet his resting temptingly on the jut of his hipbone, how his skin is sleep warm and he still smells faintly like the preserve.

 

Stiles realizes that after all of it, after every single thing Derek has been through, he doesn’t even have a single, ragged scar to show for it.

 

\--

 

When Stiles looks back on it, the initial trip was something like a Godsend. He couldn’t voice it, not when he could feel something between himself and Derek changing after every county and highway they passed. He couldn’t describe the complexity of it even if he tried. 

 

A lot had changed between the two. Not simply by comparison alone, not simply by time. He could look back on any of his relationships with the pack, and otherwise, and know that certain circumstances had built trust, had severed bonds, had changed world views, had tested them all to the limits. 

 

_This_ was so much beyond that, as intricate and delicate and life altering and fragile as a brittle bone. Stiles had gone beyond tolerating Derek in his adolescence to respecting him as a young adult to cherishing him without reserve. That was the biggest difference between the pair and the pack, while Stiles loved his friends deeply, he was not _in love_ with them.

 

It didn’t terrify him as much as he would have thought. Perhaps the idea had already been there, buried deep among his demons, among the spirit that used his body as nothing but a vessel of terror, among the dangers and his own anxieties. He hadn’t always known he loved Derek, but when he realized it, the moment they were in a dark, isolated parking lot in the middle of Oregon, Derek eating a burger from a drive-thru, his profile washed out and sharp and gorgeous, Stiles felt nothing but calm.

 

The memory still makes him smile, he still can’t believe that he had so much sheer courage built up to lean over and just _test_ the option, of leaning further and _kissing_ Derek in the most gentle, honest way he knew how. And Derek had let him, _God_ did he kiss Stiles dizzy after that.

 

Coming back from the trip had done nothing but make Stiles hopeful of the future. There was a buzzing in his skin that he thought had been singed right out of him after the his dealing with the Nemeton.

 

He was not all the way better. He truthfully thought he would never be able to piece himself back together, not after months and certainly not after years. But he was getting there, slowly, and aided by Derek’s cautious hands.

 

—

 

Stiles knew a resolution would never be as easy as a quick trip out of the state. There was no ultimate action any of them could do to finally, _finally_ live in some sort of fabricated peace. They all knew this, and even then, they all had decided to stay.

 

Scott had decided to enroll in the local community college instead of trying his luck at a bigger school, Stiles knew his best friend could have easily been accepted on his sportsmanship alone, but also he knew Scott had an itching to stay close. After losing Allison, after realizing himself a true alpha, after nearly destroying himself by protecting everyone he could, he still needed help. 

 

In the end, Kira followed Scott, Stiles followed them, Isaac stayed with Derek, and Derek looked after them all. They would meet a few times a week, sometimes everyday, sometimes just once, but what Stiles noticed was they all lacked routine, they all sought comfort. Everyone was still rattled by the present they found themselves in, Beacon Hills felt icy and unfamiliar, nothing like the quaint hometown they had grown up in.

 

Pack meetings would soon turn into something familiar, something they all looked forward to when there was no longer a threat looming above their heads, a guillotine just waiting to drop. No one was waiting for a shaky phone call, for another attack to startle them from their nights, no one was watching Stiles cryptically, wondering who was inside his head at any given moment. 

 

Instead they found solace in each other, in Derek’s loft, in pizza and movie nights, in Stiles falling asleep atop a text book, in finding Scott and Kira kissing in Derek’s room because they had gotten _lost_ , in Isaac buying scarfs for everyone for Christmas, even sending one to Lydia at Stanford, in Derek cooking for them and letting them stay over as often as they wanted.

 

In the way Derek held his hand during car rides, in Derek bringing him to the cemetery on the anniversary of the fire, in Derek waiting up for him after his night class, in Derek counting his own fingers so Stiles knows it’s not a dream.

 

—

  

He decides he wants to enroll in the police academy only a few months following the trip. Stiles’ dad isn’t very surprised, but he isn’t overly fond of the idea of his only son putting himself in another form of harms way. 

 

Derek is livid.

 

“Why would you want to contribute to it?”

  
  
“I don’t understand how you thought this wouldn’t be logical step for me?”

  
  
“Because you saw your dad, you saw how many times he was _too close_ —you want to put yourself in that same position?”

 

Stiles raises his hands as if in surrender, dropping them to harshly slap against his thighs. “As if I already haven’t been for the last _years_ , Derek!”

 

“Not like that, Stiles, I’ve been—“

 

“Protecting me, _I know_. But what happens when you can’t?” he asks genuinely, and something in his voice must strike Derek as begging because he stops. 

 

Stiles can see the way Derek’s shoulders tense, how his eyes become direct, face stony. 

 

“I always will.”

 

“You can’t guarantee that. Nobody can, Derek.”

 

He looks like he wants to argue, he always does when it involves Stiles’ safety, but instead he simply looks at him. His eyes don’t shift, he watches Stiles as if he’ll bolt, as if he’ll say something even worse.

 

Stiles approaches him slowly, takes in the way Derek’s hand twitches into a fist, how his back becomes rigid and ramrod straight, how he looks away the very moment Stiles gets into his personal space.

 

Stiles hovers there, looking at Derek’s profile, his chest just inches away from the ball of Derek’s shoulder. He can feel the werewolf’s heat, his energy, he can sense more than he ever had before, but not everything.

 

“I have to figure out a way to protect myself because you can’t be there all the time. I’ve always been a notary member of Beacon Hill’s finest, why not make it official?”

 

Derek says nothing, just turns his head enough to look at Stiles, so serious it jogs a memory, of Derek before, when Kate still had him choking on the last smoke of the fire.

 

“I have to do this, Derek. You need to understand that,” his voice is quiet, pleading.

 

Derek still says nothing.

 

—

 

They reach a compromise sometime in the early morning, neither of them having slept since Derek reached over to turn the light off.

 

Stiles knows why the werwolf is opposed to it, it’s the very same reason Derek always puts himself in front of Stiles in the face of a threat. To protect, to surrender his own well being for his mate without a doubt in his mind. 

 

Stiles doesn’t want to feel helpless, doesn’t want someone sacrificing themselves for his sake when he has enough goddamn sense to fight back. 

 

He might have to tell Derek that one day, but not yet.

 

He swings an arm around Derek’s waist, mumbles into his back _I’m not going to be an alpha husband without a few moves of my own_ , he gets a snort from the brunette and a hand curling around his own.

 

It’s not conventional and not the end of the issue, but it’s enough for both of them to fall asleep.

 

—

 

Stiles had once told Derek how things hadn’t gotten easier, but they were better.

 

He had been speaking about his dad then, months ago in a small room at a lodge, reaching out for Derek’s hand with some other bout of courage. On the road, in hotel rooms, in the woods chasing Derek’s wolf, it all felt infinitely simpler. It felt like Stiles could have told him anything, could have suggested they go here and Derek would have, could have told him how much the Nogitsune had torn down every careful attempt to feel sane, and Derek would have listened, those pale, green eyes would have never left Stiles’ face.

 

And the truth of it is that things _don’t_ get easier. 

 

It’s not easy to have Lydia away from them, it’s not easy to have trouble rolling towards them like storm waves, it’s not easy to protect those that are still left for it. 

 

It’s not easy watching Derek limping toward him, clutching his side, blood so deep in his fingertips it has lined around every nail, nearly black.

 

“I’m fine—“  


 

Stiles is right by his side, his dad is on a late shift, but everyone knows where the first aid kit is by now.

 

“ _God,_ Derek,” Stiles is helping him up the stairs of the porch, through the open door, and onto the couch. He knows he can’t do much that Derek’s healing won’t already take care of, but he goes to the kitchen, gets a clean rag damp with water and tries to breathe.

 

Derek has both hands still resting limply against his right side, thighs relaxed open, head resting against the back of the couch, eyes closed. Stiles can see blood smeared on his neck, not his own, Stiles doesn’t think.

 

The couch dips under his weight, but Derek doesn’t open his eyes, so trusting of Stiles now that he doesn’t think twice about it. Stiles doesn’t notice these little details until they are alone like this, he doesn’t know if he should be relieved Derek trusts him with his life.

 

Stiles bumps their knees together to get the werewolf’s attention. Derek’s head lulls to his left, eyes open a spectacular green, it always makes Stiles’ stomach ache.

 

Stiles raises the rag to Derek’s face, wipes off the blood already dried on his forehead, tries to get it out from bunching in his hair. He folds the rag to a clean side, wipes the iron from Derek’s neck, can make out the fingertips there, he wipes those away first.

 

He takes one of Derek’s hands, no longer embracing a wound Stiles can’t see, one that has already healed in the short time. Derek lets Stiles clean every finger, rubbing at his nails, not speaking, mechanical.

 

“This is why,” he says quietly, the words ringing loudly in the silent house.

 

Derek waits for him to continue, but Stiles grabs for the other bloodied hand. Derek lets him continue his process. Between his middle and ring finger, Stiles speaks again.

 

“You won’t always be able to do this, you can’t expect me to be okay just fixing you up when I didn’t even _know_ —“

 

“They’re safe—“ Derek tries.

 

“But what about you?”

 

“I’m _fine,_ Stiles—“

 

Stiles juts forward, body turning towards Derek, “ _Stop_ —will you just _listen_ to me! One day you won’t be, one day you’re going to be a selfish asshole just to protect everybody else and then what? Then it will just be me because you didn’t want to me to at least _try_.”

 

They fall silent. Stiles looks away in frustration, Derek looks ahead and thinks about just what Stiles is really saying.

 

“You realize how unfair that is, don’t you?” there’s a croak in Stiles’ voice, it’s thick with emotion but he’s trying to keep it even. 

 

“I can’t let anything happen to you.”

 

Derek can hear Stiles’ heartbeat pick up, can feel how his skin is getting hotter. Stiles can sense something warm, without end between the two.

 

“ _God_ ,” Stiles chokes, “you’re so annoyingly valiant,” but he’s laughing through it.

 

He reaches for Derek's hand, still stained with blood and dirt and every worry he has always worn, and he brings it up to his dry lips for a tender kiss.

 

“It’s going to take a lot to ever get rid of me, you know. Even you’re going to get sick of me.”

 

Derek smiles at that. He almost wants to cry.

 

“No, I won’t.”

 

—

 

But the truth is that things _do_ get better, too. 

 

Not all at once, not overnight, and only after Stiles realizes there has been more good than there’s been in sometime.

 

He notices it in the way the Beacon Hills doesn’t feel so distant anymore, in the way that his dad’s face doesn’t look etched with worry, in how Melissa comes over for dinner, in how complete the pack feels when Lydia comes to visit.

 

More than anything, Stiles _feels_ it.

 

Feels it when he settles in next to Derek, feels it when he’s surrounded by pack, feels it in his very core when Derek is hot inside him. It races inside his veins like a wildfire, slow and warm and it aches because it feels so numbingly beautiful.

 

Derek had told him once why it feels different now, why it feels like they’re burning alive, why he isn’t afraid by any of it.

 

Stiles groans into the duvet, fingers wrung tight around the fabric bunched in his hands. His back keeps stretching farther, legs taut where they’re bent, thighs slapping against Derek’s by the grip of his rough hands.

 

Derek puckers his lips around the top notch of Stiles’ spine, licks around it, trying to suck another mark onto him. Stiles is slick with a thin veil of sweat and Derek adores tasting him when he’s like this, ripe and seedy it almost makes him feral.

 

“ _Derek_ —“

 

“You drive me crazy,” he breathes the words hotly onto Stiles’ pale skin, sears them with his mouth so he’ll remember.

 

Stiles makes a noise like it’s been punched out of him, rises onto the balls of his palms and bucks backwards. He hears something rumble in Derek’s chest, feels him crumble a little around him.

 

“ _Fuck, hold still—_ “

 

Stiles keeps going, shoving himself back onto Derek’s cock, legs trembling, arms in danger of giving out until they finally do. His elbows give himself enough traction to continue, hips undulating like waves, rolling and he knows it’s making Derek lose himself with how much his chest won’t stop vibrating, so deep Stiles can feel it inside where they’re joined.

 

Derek watches as his cock is wedged tight between Stiles’ ass, watches as Stiles’ ass bounces each time he rears back into Derek’s pelvic bone, grinding himself down like an animal in heat. He can see the strain of Stiles’ hole, red and stretched, Derek still has Stiles’ taste in his mouth, wishes his jaw still ached by how long he drove his tongue into him. He lets spit dribble out of his mouth, rubs in around Stiles’ hole, the slickness making his hips shudder. It doesn’t escape Derek the way Stiles bites around the skin of his own arm.

 

Derek shifts them up the mattress, Stiles reaches for a pillow to hold onto. Derek keeps his hips tight against Stiles, brings his chest to rest against Stiles’ back, a hand slips underneath him, all the way across his chest to hold onto his throat. 

 

“ _Yeah, oh fuck, fuck, fuck . . ._ ”

 

Derek’s strong thighs bracket Stiles’ limps ones, his cock striking sharp into his mate, makes him wince with pleasure, little cries coming out of his mouth, his breathing becoming strained and rough. Derek can feel Stiles’ pulse tapping against the thin skin of his throat, directly under his palm, its alight with life and trying to keep up. Derek tightens his grip just a bit, Stiles groans dirty into the pillow, Derek can smell the way Stiles’ cock is leaking at the attention.

 

“Shit,” Derek growls, pleasure pooling thick in his gut, crackling up his spine like electricity. Stiles answers him with another fluttering noise, his own hand coming to rest atop of Derek’s, still caged possessive around his throat.

 

“Bite me,” Stiles commands him, voice fucked out and honest, he’s hungry for it.

 

_I would have let you do anything_ , Derek remembers him saying once, so he does.

 

—

 

Stiles is turned toward him, on his side, amber eyes tired, but trying to blink themselves awake. Derek has a hand curled loosely at the small of his mate’s back, keeping them close.

 

The bite isn’t deep, not enough to turn someone, but Derek can see each indent of his teeth, the skin around it flared and red.

 

“Do you think it’ll scar?” Stiles asks him and Derek doesn’t know. But it won’t fade, claiming marks stay with someone forever, even beneath the surface.

 

He wonders if that’s the same as any ordinary scar.

 

“I hope it does,” Stiles continues, sleepy and warm with only something they can feel, “you have enough of them for us to share.”

 

Before Derek can ask him what he means by that, Stiles’ breathing evens out, his eyes slip closed.

 

But Derek doesn’t have to ask, not really.

 

Stiles will tell him later if he wants to, but for now, Derek lets him sleep. He’ll always be there when Stiles wakes up.

 


End file.
